Sunday, April 29, 2007

There's a band called Split Lip Rayfield that I find to rock quite sufficiently. They have a bluegrass/punk/whoknowswhat sound. The bass player's instrument is made out of a gas tank. Enough said, I think.

I'm particularly proud of the subtle detail of his face, so here's a closeup:

Friday, April 27, 2007

When traveling by foot, most birds hop. Some run. A few (of the non-water fowl type anyway) actually walk. Grackles have a stroll that I find quite satisfying. If you're lucky, you'll see one doing a grapevine (that's walking sideways, for those of you who've never seen an aerobics class).

I have to go to work. I'll update with a limerick or something later.

UPDATE: Obligatory poem

Here he is, the bird of the hourWalking around his piercing eyes glowerHis beak is set to make him look dourAs if he has eaten something quite sourOr heard the phrase "junk bird" from some ivory tower

Rhyming words not used: flower, shower, power, our, wower (as in one who wows). Any others?

Sunday, April 22, 2007

Let's pretend that this is a portrait of an individual who lives in a society that is without all of the trappings of modern technology. It could be in the Congo, Amazon, Indonesia, wherever. Doesn't really matter. It seems like people either glamorize (noble) or demonize (savage) dudes like this. Me, I just see an opportunity for a goofy limerick.

There was a man on a missionTo give up his life filled with fishin.He wanted more wealthAnd much better healthAnd perhaps to be a beautician.

The trees grow really tall around here in NC. And you know what they say about tall trees: big roots.

Yup, that's what they say.

"Trees have fallen and continue to fall," said the park ranger on a very windy day last week. "Enter at your own risk."

You can tell what kind of person you are by how you read that last sentence. Most people probably read "Enter at your ownRISK." I read "ENTERat your own risk." But years of self-restraint/denial overrode my unhealthy desire to see trees falling, so I waited until the next day to see the carnage aftermath.

Here are a couple of non-paint pictures to show what I saw:

So I exaggerated the size of the tree a bit in the painting. Artistic license.

There they were, all the roots and inner workings of a tree on display, covered in red Carolina dirt.

The easy thing to do would be to draw some lesson from this - like the capillary action of the roots drawing water from the ground (too much analogy?) - about the impermanence of life and how all that once nurtured you will knock you down and leave you exposed to the world. But I'd rather say:

I enjoyed drawing this in art class. If it sells for the cost of that class, I'll be breaking even.

I guess you could say you're not paying me, but rather the Art Alliance of Greensboro.

Anyway, here's a trumpet for your enjoyment. You can't actually play it, of course, but that may be a good thing. If you are a terrible player, for example. Like the guy that was painfully honking a rendition (for lack of a better word) of Girl From Ipanema. I loved that song, once.

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

There's a great restaurant called Hillbilly Hideaway. It's one of those one meal on the menu style places. They also have music in the barn out back (NO DANCING, DRINKING, OR CUSSING). There's an old man who I believe owns/previously owned the place singing in the barn every time we go. He'll forget words, sing a little off key, the usual stuff that will get you kicked of American Idol, but he's very entertaining. That's who I was trying to draw.

Instead, this crazy looking dude is what materialized. Funny how life can be.

In North Carolina, little spikey balls fall from trees during fall and winter. When you're trying to clear the sidewalk with a leaf-blower, they roll in unpredictable directions. Tenants complain about the risk to injury they pose.

I hope someday they manage to genetically engineer a beautiful tree that drops NOTHING.

The crow couldn't care less. He just doesn't want to accidentally miss that branch, as that would be embarrassing.

Rooster Hanshaw plays a mean guitar. He's not a pro - pro guitar player anyway. He IS a pro auto mechanic. He just plays his guitar to get the sounds of drilling and revving out of his head.

He also has another hobby, one that no one knows about. He's not ashamed, mind you. He just knows no one would understand and he doesn't want to try to explain anyway.

He has a blog with his essays on the intricacies of Austrian Economics.

That's right. This dude from the mountains of western North Carolina engages in flame wars with both loony lefties from the left coast to wretched righties from the right. To them, he's a professor type from George Mason University who wears crooked glasses and a suit. They don't see his greased-stained keyboard. Or know that his friends call him Rooster.

And when the computer screen ceases to amuse, he goes back staining the frets with car guts.

Saturday, April 14, 2007

The wife and I were walking the dog in the park and heard some crows going crazy. They were mobbing something. Looking up in a tree, we saw the crows hurling their anger at a nonplussed great horned owl. We ran back to the apartment to get the camera. Zooming in, the owl was looking right at us. Very spooky.

Did you know that a great horned owl has enough claw strength to take your face off?

Sunday, April 08, 2007

New York, NY (AP) -- A giant and angry goldfinch went on an angry rampage today on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

"No comment," said an obviously spooked Mayor Bloomberg.

Ornithologists are equally puzzled, both at the size and behavior of this particular goldfinch.

"They are usually such peaceful creatures," said Dr. Vent. "Of course, they are usually much smaller, too."

One person, Mrs. Birdcliffe, claims to have an explanation for the incident.

"I've seen it before, and, frankly, am surprised this doesn't happen more often. Birds are the descendants of dinosaurs. They ruled the earth with an iron claw. Now, they are called 'cute' and 'precious' and 'dahling.' People treat them like they're fragile little weaklings. Obviously, this goldfinch couldn't take the humiliation anymore."

And the size?

"Steroids, HGH, Creatine, and a workout regimen heavy on the weight, light on the cardio."

When asked what we should do about the current situation, Mrs. Birdcliffe looks askance and says, "What do you think we're supposed to do with a giant goldfinch? Obviously, whatever it wants."

The wife has been getting some great shots with here rifle. Like this squirrel, for instance. She was able to shoot that thing from like half a mile away. Look at how cute this little guy is, and my wife SHOT it. Can you believe it?

She's going around, shooting everything. Birds, hedgehogs, even our neighbors. I'm sure glad I got her a birthday present she enjoys so much. She can really zoom in, like this: